


Drunken Ficlet: Retake

by greywash



Series: Drunken!ficlets [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Drunken!ficlet, archived from Tumblr. Unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked, as always.</em>
</p><p><strong>airynothing requested</strong>: Please write me what happens after <a href="http://airynothing.tumblr.com/post/18962139685/mirabilelectu-sherlockiansforlif">the "What the fuck happened last night" graphic I reblogged</a>. </p><p>(Link is very much NSFW, and also why I'm rating this Explicit, though the ficlet itself really probably only merits a Mature.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Ficlet: Retake

John shifts, stretching, hissing as he shifts into awareness, and Sherlock can feel his blood stirring, faint and horrifying, as the blanket slides to the floor.

"Fuck," John says, low and thick, and then opens his eyes, licking his lips.

"John," Sherlock manages, and John stares up at him, and then jerks, gasping when the cuff digs into his wrist.

"Christ," John gasps, twisting up, and Sherlock casts his eyes about, desperate, looking for the key.

"Hold still," Sherlock says, "John—your _wrist_ , John—"

"Jesus, what did we _do_ last night?" John manages, rubbing the back of his free hand against his mouth.

"Well, at a glance," Sherlock says, a little high, and then laughs.

"Where's the key?" John asks, and Sherlock says, "I—I don't know, John, hold still, I've wire cutters in the kitchen."

He pads out, and—fuck, why—he owns _four pairs of wire cutters_ , and he can't even find _one_ when he needs it? "John," he calls. "Where are my wire cutters?"

"Last I saw they were in with the flatware," John calls back, and Sherlock jogs over to the drawer. The flat is cold; he wishes he'd thought to grab his dressing gown, but—excellent, these are his heavy-duty wire cutters; overkill, perhaps, but they'll do the trick.

"Found the key," John calls, just as Sherlock's coming back in, and then, looking up at Sherlock, adds, "Oh, sorry."

"Key's better than the cutters," Sherlock tells him. "Let me, you're cutting into your wrist, Christ, John, do you have _no_ sense of self-preservation?" He crouches up next to John's side, taking the key away from him, and unlatches the cuff. John winces as Sherlock eases his wrist free, and Sherlock brushes his thumb against John's forearm, John's palm.

"We should clean that," Sherlock says, touching John's skin, just above the abrasion.

John sucks in a breath, and Sherlock stills. He's naked, and John's naked, and he is, he realizes, with some surprise,  _holding John's hand_.

"In a minute?" John suggests, low, sliding his hand down, to brush his fingertips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock looks down at him. He's not sure he's breathing. John licks his lips and shifts, rolling his ribs close up against Sherlock's knees.

"About last night," Sherlock says, low.

"I don't remember anything," John tells him.

"Me neither," Sherlock says, and then licks his lips, and admits, "I wish I did."

John runs his left hand up Sherlock's side, and murmurs, "Maybe we could use a refresher."

"Yes, exactly," Sherlock breathes, sliding down, as he drops the open cuff off the side of the bed.


End file.
